


Like a Million Little Crossroads

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-11
Updated: 2007-11-11
Packaged: 2019-03-13 09:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13568121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Another slightly alternate universe take on the night Mark shows up after returning from New York.





	Like a Million Little Crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by a comments conversation with [](http://crawlypie.livejournal.com/profile)[**crawlypie**](http://crawlypie.livejournal.com/). Title from "Ghost of a Chance" [(lyrics here)](http://www.lyricsdomain.com/18/rush/ghost_of_a_chance.html) by Rush.
> 
> (I know, if the scene had gone this way, there would have been no snowy street scene, no lovely kiss in front of the stationery store… and no sexy, guttural rumbling confirming that nice boys do kiss like that… there’s give and take, I guess. ;) )
> 
> Disclaimer: Pr0n! Oh, and characters? Not mine. Words in the order that they are? Those are mine.

It isn't as if she doesn't want to kiss him. She does. But she's been moping about her flat all day—all week—and knows she's not exactly dressed or otherwise prepared for kissing a man who's occupied her thoughts frequently since her birthday and quite solidly since Boxing Day. He seems determined though, and she makes to evade him so that she can prepare. "I'll be right with you."

She feels a suddenly-bare hand firmly on her arm before she can turn away.

"No," he says, his voice low.

"No?"

Suddenly he is towering over her, his eyes dark, boring into her soul.

"No," he reiterates.

His other hand comes up, fingers curling around the nape of her neck, thumb brushing against her cheek, and he lowers his head to place a tender, fleeting kiss on her lips.

No indeed.

He only draws back far enough to engage her eyes again, the sort of look that catches hold and doesn't let go. She feels almost mesmerised, helped in part by the feel of his breath skating across her skin. He moves a step forward and the door jamb is uncomfortably against her back but she doesn't care about that as much as his second kiss, which is a little bolder, a little more aggressive. Her eyes have fluttered closed and she feels the tip of his tongue tentatively moving along her lips; she parts them in invitation to deepen his kiss, and he is somehow gentle, reverent and hungry at the same time. As his mouth fully claims hers, as his tongue slides nimbly against her own, she thinks fleetingly of an earlier comment about tongues down throats, feeling no impulse whatsoever to giggle.

She is so taken by the kiss, so lost in rapturous sensation, that she can't consciously recall the last time she drew breath, and so breaks away with a great sigh, feeling as desperate for air as if she's just done a hundred meter dash. He doesn't seem deterred at all, because he's now placing lingering kisses along her jawline. His hand moves down from her neck to her shoulder and it's the most acutely felt light touches in the history of the world, aside from the attention he's now giving to her neck.

He whispers her name close to her ear; with the way he says it, the way his warm breath moves over her skin again, she turns her head quickly, intent on reclaiming his lips but instead she meets his cheek, so she kisses that instead. Her arms finally snap to life and she brings her fingertips up to comb through his hair then encircle his neck.

In the blink of an eye, his hands slide across her back and abruptly he pulls her to him. With the way he rears his head back and clumsily, ravenously finds her mouth again, the way his hands slide down over her bottom and urgently press her into him, it's clear that his restraint has now fallen away… and, if she's to judge by the firmness pressing into her abdomen, he wants her very much.

There's a crash immediately behind her that makes her jump and nervously begin to laugh; she realises that they've circled and backed into her little writing table there by the entryway, and the stack of magazines and papers that had been spread across the top have been sent scattering across the kitchen floor. She glances back and sees her diary among them.

"Here, let me get those for you." He releases her as if he hasn't just been kissing her within an inch of her life.

"It's all right," she manages in an unsteady voice.

He's got the open diary in his hand now and he glances down involuntarily as if to determine what he's holding. She knows she's written some pretty unkind things in there about him so she blurts out: "Don't."

He looks up, startled. "I'm sorry." He snaps it shut. "That's private. I didn't mean…" He drifts off uncomfortably.

"Well," she says awkwardly. "I wasn't very nice to you in there, is all."

At her admission, he unexpectedly smiles. "I wasn't very nice to you when we first met, so I think we're even."

"Ah." She tries to smile in return.

He sets the closed diary down on the table, then turns back to her. How she never noticed the intensity of his gaze before, she doesn't know. "So," he says.

She clears her throat. "So," she echoes stupidly, wondering if there is some sort of gentleman's snogging etiquette she is unfamiliar with, like he's waiting for her to make the next move.

He grasps the front edge of his coat at the waist.

"Do you want—" she begins, then stops suddenly. _To take your coat off and stay a while? A drink? To shag me?_

"Yes," he replies without missing a beat.

She blinks in surprise. "I didn't ask you anything yet."

"It doesn't matter," he replies in a very low, smoky voice. He comes near to her again and reaches for the edges of her coat, pushing it back over her shoulders and down her arms. It falls to the floor. She doesn't care, because his hands are moving from her wrists, up along her arms and to her shoulders. One remains there while the other cradles her face. "You've no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he says softly.

When she thinks about it, in that brief moment where he's moving towards her again to kiss her, she realises she's wanted it for some time, too; at the very least since Bonfire Night, when he blindsided her with his admission at the dinner party. She wants to tell him so, but the most she can manage is a soft sound as he lifts her face to his again, slides his other hand around her waist to draw her near.

He then stops even before he kisses her again, releasing the hold on her waist.

"What?" she asks; her voice betrays the panic she suddenly feels, like he's maybe had second thoughts.

His grin is broad though; he knows what she's thinking. "It's slightly uncouth to give a girl a proper kiss looking like I might dash for the door at any moment."

She giggles, reining in the urge to trace her fingers along the handsome indentations formed by his smile. They've only kissed twice, though, and she's not even sure it's okay to just reach out and do that yet. She watches as he slips out of his shoes then shrugs off his coat, throwing that garment over the table, before he turns back to her, coming up close again.

She wonders if she'll ever get used to the magnetic pull of those soulful eyes. She hopes she'll get the chance to find out; she hopes she never gets used to it.

Raising her hand to his chest, she slides it up until she reaches the collar of his shirt, a turtleneck almost the precise colour as the scarf she discarded on the way into the flat. As her fingers flit along the skin of his neck, comb into the hair at the nape, his lashes flutter erratically but he keeps his eyes trained on her.

Taking the initiative, she raises on her toes, encircling her arms around his neck then pressing her lips to his. He responds immediately by taking her in his arms and crushing her chest against his. She is mostly aware of the rough bristle of five o'clock shadow against her skin, the weakness in her knees, his hands moving across her back, the desire building low in her belly. Her fingers sweep over his short, wavy hair, down over the precisely shaped sideburns, down over where she knows those hollows would be if he were smiling. Her feather-light touch seems to fuel him on.

She feels the pads of his fingers suddenly on the small of her back, up under the lower hem of her shirt directly on her bare skin, and in her surprise she reflexively arches into him, feels just how much his ardour has grown. He breaks away and moans softly, whispering her name as his hands move tentatively higher. She feels the edge of what must be her little writing table against her arse.

She whispers his name in return.

"Please," he says, his voice very gravelly, almost desperate, brushing his lips against her cheek. "Please tell me."

"Tell you what?" she asks raggedly.

"That you want to sleep with me as much as I—"

"I do," she interrupts, overlapping with his 'I'. "God, yes, I do."

He turns to kiss her again as he draws his fingers up over the elastic of her bra strap, hooking around and tugging down, clearly trying to work open the clasp. As she leans back onto the table she hears the wood groan beneath her and she snaps out of the moment.

"Wait, no, not right here. This table will splinter beneath us."

She hears him laugh low in his throat, easing upright and pulling her with him. "Sorry. Afraid I got carried away." He nuzzles his nose into her hair. "Care to lead the way?"

It's silly to feel shy, she knows, but she does. She feels a mild heat creep up her cheeks as she slides her hand into his, pulling him forward. Her room's a disaster and she curses her lack of attention to domestic detail (especially since she thought he'd gone for good to the New World). As she turns back to him, though, she realises the room could be on fire, the walls could be dripping chocolate sauce, and he wouldn't have noticed.

He only has eyes for her.

The lamp's still on from when her friends helped her to pack for the weekend excursion they'd planned for her in order to bring her out of the dumps. It's a soft, warm light that brings out the honeyed caramel tone of his eyes. He places his hands on her hips, pulls her closer, fingers the edge of her shirt before taking hold of it and tugging it up over her head.

She is not wearing one of her more favoured bras; in fact, she has one on that rather belongs in the same category as her granny pants. With the way his eyes are fixed on her bosoms she thinks he must be kind of appalled by it. "Sorry," she begins, "but I did want—"

_To change it_ is the rest of what she intended to say; that is, before he bends down to place a kiss between them, before reaching around to work at that clasp again. As that garment comes loose, releasing her from its restriction, her head falls back as he pulls it off of her and he eagerly continues kissing her, reaching up, cupping the sides of her breasts with his hands.

Then he has his arms around her just under her ribs, and he picks her up and carries her over the few steps closer to her unkempt bed almost like he's moving a store mannequin. His eagerness is endearing and she can't help it: she chuckles. When he sets her down and begins to work at the button of her trousers with obviously desire-addled motor skills, she runs her fingers over his. "Why don't you let me take care of that? And of you, for that matter."

The man is, after all, still practically fully dressed.

As she slips out of her slacks, steps out of her socks, she realises that her pants, while not full-on scary granny pants, are plain ivory cotton with little multi-coloured stars that have faded with washing, aren't even a sexy cut, not even bikinis. He doesn't seem to notice this horror, either, bringing his hands to the waistband, running his fingers along it.

Determined not to be distracted, she reaches for the bottom of his turtleneck, tugging up as far as she can. He seemingly comes to his senses and takes it off the rest of the way. Beneath that is his undershirt, which amuses her. It's also strangely sexy.

She undoes the waist of his trousers, the zip, and they're not so tight they have to be pulled down. He steps out of them, pulls off his socks. Besides the undershirt he's left wearing his underpants, boxers with pale blue stripes, the front of which he's obviously straining against.

He says her name again, and the plaintive tone of his voice indicates that maybe she's taking too long for his liking. She reaches forward and pulls the undershirt up out of the boxers and over his head, then looks back to him.

She always guessed him to be trim judging from the cut of the suits she ordinarily saw him in, but he's got a really nice body, nice chest, firm abs, and without thinking she brings her fingers up to trace along his pecs. This light touch seems to indicate to him that the pause to undress is over and he takes hold of her again, kissing her fiercely, his hands circling round her waist and pushing her boring old panties down over her rear.

She is almost certain she still has some Durex in her nightstand; she prays she is right as her own fingers edge under the elastic of his boxers and over his bottom.

Instinctively he moves his hips forward and she sighs.

Falling, she's falling, lands on her back with him beside her, his hand running over her thigh, hip, stomach, breast as he continues to kiss her, murmuring between kisses how beautiful she is to him, how long he's wanted her. It's so easy to just let it all flow over her, let her head tip back as he plies her throat with kisses, and then his fingers are sliding over her again, trailing down across her hip and leg. As his fingers slip to the oversensitive skin of her inner thigh, she moans. Indicators of her arousal are not as visibly obvious as his, she knows, but he finds what he's looking for.

"Do you have…" he begins huskily, trailing off.

"Think so, look in the drawer," she breathes.

She feels him shift, hears the wood of the drawer open, hears him shifting papers and knickknacks around. "Not finding any."

Shit. Shit shit shit.

He makes a sound indicating amusement. "Be right back."

He raises from her side, puzzling her. She suddenly feels kind of exposed lying there with no clothes on, but when she sees him fully naked, fully at attention, those thoughts abandon her. She realises he's looking for his trousers, swoops down and finds them, stuffing his hand in the pocket. As he stands he looks at her again, taking her bare body just as she's just been doing to his. The trousers fall to the floor again. In his hand she sees he is holding several condom packets, and she smiles.

Leave it to him to be prepared.

"You weren't a Boy Scout by some chance, were you?" she asks as he joins her on the bed once more, putting the packets save for one on the bedside table. He smiles as he looks at her, then turns his attention to the task at hand. She knows it's slightly evil to rake her nails along his hip, but she does it anyway.

When he's done he wastes no time picking up where he's left off, stretching out beside her, covering her mouth with his, running his hand over her fevered skin. He's turning so that she's beneath him, slipping his fingers between her parted legs, and she cries out as he presses them into her, glides them over her with practised strokes.

She bucks her hips up, presses urgent hands into his back, begs him for more.

Letting his fingers guide the way, he complies, driving forward into her, filling her, and she moans again. He's resting on his left elbow, running the fingers of his right hand over her hip, her stomach, over her breast before settling his weight evenly between his two arms. It's then that he begins to thrust, maddeningly slowly at first, but then he picks up speed, and she matches his movements, pushing up into him in time. She hears him groaning with effort, repeating her name, biting gently at the skin of her neck as she grasps so hard into his back she wonders if she'll leave behind the little half-moon shapes of her nails in the skin there. She's feeling dizzy; her head is dancing up high among the stars. She feels the culmination building, knows if he just pushes a bit harder she'll come.

Her hands reach down to his buttocks, grabbing him and pressing him hard into her, thrusting up into him as he continues to move in her. It works, and she feels the cascading ripple begin, arches her head back and gasps. Apparently this simple action sends him over the edge too, because he goes thoroughly taut and begins to quiver, his breath hot on her shoulder. He emits one final moan before he goes completely still, resting his weight on her, drawing his hands up to her face, into her hair as he kisses her with utter veneration.

Her arms drop uselessly to the bed, and she revels in the post-coital bliss washing over her, revels in his continued desire to kiss her so tenderly, so thoroughly. She's trying to remember how to breathe again as he rolls to the side, pulling her with him. She rests her cheek just under his collarbone as he embraces her, holding her close, as if unwilling just yet to be parted from her.

"At the risk of sounding cliché," he says quietly into her ear, "I think the earth just moved, there."

She chuckles under her breath, bringing her hand up to his chest, the fine mat of hair soft under her fingers. "That was… yes. Very, very…." She drifts off as she realises any word she could possibly choose would be inadequate to describe how she feels at that moment in time.

He brings his hand up to her cheek, presses a kiss into the tousled mess of her hair. "You flatterer, you."

She feels suddenly very sleepy, and she closes her eyes. If someone had told her that morning she'd be in bed with him that very evening, she would have laughed in disbelief, but here he was, not in New York at all. "Did you…" she begins uncertainly.

"Did I what?" He sounds very drowsy too.

"Did you really come back for good?"

"Yes."

"Left your partnership in New York."

"Can't work there from here, can I?" he says, a light teasing edge to his voice.

"Why?"

"I should think that's patently obvious."

She pushes herself up to look at him. He is wearing an expression of deadly seriousness. "Really?" she asks.

He nods.

She can't help but smirk, can't help but think her friends would call her smug for doing so. "Oh." She reaches forward to plant a quick kiss on his mouth.

He engages her eyes again; she's pleased to discover his gaze is compelling as it was earlier. "Does that really surprise you so much?" he asks, running a hand over her backside, then draws the blanket over them, which is convenient as she's beginning to get chilled.

She blinks, is thoughtful. "Can't say I've ever inspired anyone to return from three thousand miles away before, so, just a little surprised, I suppose."

"Well, for the record, you did… and you were worth it."

She feels herself flush with heat, looks away modestly. There must be something he really likes about the way she does this, because he uses his fingertips to direct her face to his again, reaches up and kisses her.

" _Are_ worth it. Really," he says for emphasis as he drops his head back to the pillow, drawing her into his arms again, brushing his fingers along her upper arms, kissing her temple.

Given all he's said and all he's done, she has little choice but to believe him, feels another self-satisfied smile invade the corner of her mouth as she snuggles into him.

After many moments in this fashion, his hand brushes against her shoulder blade, down along her spine.

"If you don't mind," he says in a tone she's already come to recognise as unchaste, "I'd like to show you again how worth it you are."

_The end._


End file.
